It was my last night in Costa Rica and I met up with my friends Eric and Chris. We wandered around the main square in downtown San Jose, catching up on our month apart. We had studied together in a course learning to teach English as a second language. They both had jobs lined up at a special school for underprivileged kids in a small town not far from the capital city. I was heading back home to start graduate school and had spent the past month in a spiritual community on the western coast. We chatted amiably and talked about how we would miss each other, reviewing the adventures we had had and characters we’d met during our time in this happiest of countries. We went to the central market, an enclosed labyrinth of every store imaginable. There were stalls selling fresh meat, cow hooves and pigs ears ostentatiously displayed with slabs of recently butchered animals. There were entire sections devoted to flowers, elaborate bouqets of dyed flowers decorated with glitter as well as the richest most vibrant roses and passionfruit flowers, lilies and flowers I had never seen before. There were a few diner style places to eat where men sat and downed beers and greasy foods. One store sold homeopathic remedies for any ailment possible, the man working there was chopping up stalks of aloe vera to extract the beneficial juice inside the plant. Vegetables and fruits of every variety were strung from the ceiling and piled into baskets, where motherly women selected the choicest pieces. There was a pet store where my heart broke at the sight of tiny puppies, way too young to be away from their mothers, that were locked in metal wire cages stacked one on top of another. Along the edges of the marketplace were the stores I was seeking, filled with souvenirs of every form. I entered one store and managed to find gifts for all my friends and family. A coffee strainer for my friend Geoanna, a beautiful wooden cutting board with a colorful parrot inlaid in mosaic for my mom, a box made of checkered wooden tiles in gorgeous grains and rich reds and browns for my father. A “pura vida” T-shirt for my brother and a selection of shot glasses with monkeys and palm trees on them for my friends. The final item I selected, at Eric and Chris’ suggestion of what to get my boyfriend, was a medium sized machete, a threatening wide silver blade with a leather case and handle, guaranteed they assured me to appeal to any guy my age. The woman at the register packed all of the items into a plastic bag and I carried it in my arms as we left the market.
San Jose is not a beautiful city, the country attracts tourists with its gorgeous beaches and preserved natural resources. The city is gritty and grimy and at night every block is a solid wall of metal grates and iron fences, often with barbed wire at the top. The buildings are rarely higher than two stories and are a jumbled mixture of brightly painted homes and stores with the names scrawled messily in paint above them. Deep lanes line every street to ferry the inevitable deluges of the rainy season out of the way of the incessant traffic. The occasional beggar or street person comes up shaking a tin can and asking for assistance. Most people find some way to get by however, selling newspapers (a day old) or hawking hand made souvenirs. People hustle around dressed nicely, the women almost always in blue jeans and high heels, a feat I admire in the cracked streets and sidewalks. Standing in the city it is hard to imagine the glorious natural richness of the rainforests and national parks which make up most of this small Central American country.
It was mid December and the Christmas celebrations were in full swing. We passed a group of singers on the corner who threw handfuls of little bits of white paper out over the crowd, the closest thing to snow they would experience for the holiday. I smiled as we passed palm trees adorned with wreaths and ribbons. As it was my last night I wanted a more authentic experience for dinner than was available in the touristy central plaza. There were brand name American restaurants such as TGIF and McDonalds, both considered a real treat for special occasions by local families. I balked at the idea of eating at such a brand name capitalized version of my country and the prices were exorbitant in comparison to the native selections. We walked a block or two out of the central area, where security guards in uniforms no longer patrolled every block. I had never felt unsafe in this country however, where the motto is “pura vida”, pure life which is used as a multipurpose phrase which generally means, life is good. We wandered around in search of a local place to eat but since it was a Sunday night, most places were closed.
We rounded a corner into a rather seedy area, the guys pointed out the infamous casino Del Rey where attractive young Ticas seduced wealthy white businessmen, for a price. We walked through it and I was both impressed by the pride with which the girls carried themselves, and saddened for what their circumstances had lead them to do for a living. The girls boasted curvacious figures stuffed into small dresses and tight stretchy pants while the clientele was made up mostly of middle aged, overweight white men probably many of whom were taking a sexual tour of latin america. We exited the place and walked towards a restaurant Eric was familiar with which he thought would still be open. He was a few steps ahead and Chris was to my left, walking slightly faster than me.
A big man with a bald head walked towards us and as he passed in between our trio he lifted his shirt to reveal the handle of a gun tucked into his pants. I was surprised but figured the best thing was to let him go on his way to handle whatever business he was after. He walked by me and I went to turn to Chris to ask if he had seen the weapon and to share my awe that this potentially dangerous fellow had been around us. Chris stopped to tie his shoe at that moment and I continued walking on past him at the rate I had been going, figuring he would catch up to Eric and I and aware of my grumbling stomach. I gazed around, lost in thought about my time here in this country, my fourth visit and undoubtedly not the last. I thought about how cold it would be when I got home, and how I would miss la pura vida when I was stressing my way through yet more schooling.
I became aware at that moment that the man who had walked past was now walking in the opposite direction, back the way he had come on the sidewalk with me. I thought that was odd but figured maybe he had forgotton something at home or had been heading in the wrong way. I noticed then that he was talking and I glanced sideways at him to see if he was on a cell phone, but both his hands were at his side. I continued walking a few steps and only then realized that he was saying something directed at me in Spanish. I am fluent but not a native speaker so I have to turn on my attention to the language or it floats past me as noises. I began to listen and understood what he was saying; “Dame la bolsa”, “give me the bag”. A wave of fear flowed over me and at first I was confused as to which bag he wanted; the plastic one full of souvenirs in my arms, or my purse hanging on the opposite shoulder from where he was. I considered, in the slowed down version of time which is common of traumatic situations, that he wouldn’t want what was in the plastic bag, he was Costa Rican, why would he want souvenirs covered in token mottos and symbols of the country, but thought maybe he could re-sell them to other tourists. Then I thought about what was in my purse; my cell phone which I , my camera with all the pictures from my trip, fortunately not my passport, but other keepsakes and valuables from my time in the country. My first thought was not “oh my god this man has a gun” it was “but I don’t want to give him my bag!”. This may have happened all in under a minute, or maybe it took 5, at any rate, my inability to understand that I was being robbed, and subsequent reaction which lacked what it should have in fear most likely saved my bag, and possibly my life. At that moment the man turned around, and walked in the other direction. Maybe it was because a group of people were walking towards us, or maybe it was because he was just as frustrated and confused that this girl he was trying to rob did not react as people usually do when they are being mugged, or maybe he just ran out of time and figured there would be other tourist prey to be found in the area. I caught up to the guys who somehow had managed to not have noticed that someone had just attempted to rob me and told them what had happened, in an calm yet tense voice, and informed them that we needed to get out of there as soon as possible. They reacted in disbelief and shock but crossed the street with me and we hopped on the next bus which arrived, not caring where it was going as long as it was away from that dark street and armed man. As we drove away I breathed a sigh of relief and told them the story, all of us laughing since we did not know quite else what to do at the absurdity of how I had been saved not by bravery but out of my own ignorance. I took the machete gift out of the souvenir bag and put it in my purse where the handle stuck out menacingly. The rest of the night I kept an eye out, waiting for someone to ask for my bag again at which point I would turn, show the giant knife and ask, “you want this bag?”.
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